Confetti Canon
by amandajbruce
Summary: A collection of one shots set during season two focusing on Coulson's team. An alphabet challenge.


Confetti Canon.

-o-

Adapting.

-o-

"Small chips – uh – fries, please. And hot tea?" She swallowed uncomfortably, handing over a few bills as the cashier instructed.

Jemma felt like everyone in the little burger joint was staring at her. That was, of course, ridiculous. The mothers with their small children itching to throw down their chicken nuggets and scramble into the ball pit were clearly not interested in her. The teenagers with large soft drinks camped out in booths for the free wi-fi weren't going to be paying her any mind either. Neither were the senior citizens cashing in on discounted coffee. The staff probably cared least of all. Who knows how many customers they went through in a day? She had seen nearly a dozen people order their food to-go and leave just in the time she'd been standing in line. This really was the perfect place for what she needed to do.

Fully aware of the evidence to the contrary, she tried to ignore the feeling that all eyes were trained in her direction and took her tray from the cashier. A small paper sack of French fries – she had to remember to keep calling them that, even after a decade in the States – and a cup full of hot water, an envelope of tea nestled next to it, probably didn't seem like the healthiest of lunch options, but she wasn't entirely sure she would be able to keep it down. Not on this first day out.

Choosing a table near the back corner of the restaurant, right next to the doors to the bathrooms, Jemma smiled as a toddler careened around her legs, arms spread out as though he was flying. She settled into her seat to wait, nibbling on fries, letting her tea steep, and pulled out a well-worn novel to read. She would read a few pages, then allow her gaze to wander the lobby of the restaurant. She was fifteen pages in, her tea now cold, and her fries mostly gone, when she saw him walk in.

She held her breath and counted to ten.

He ordered an iced tea, not even acknowledging her presence, a newspaper tucked under one arm as he waited for his purchase.

She stared at the surface of the table and slowly let her breath out, as quiet as could be.

He pulled the paper from a straw, pushing it through the lid with a squeak, taking a sip of the sweet tea before looking around for an empty table.

She could feel his eyes just slip right on by her, even though her gaze was firmly locked down, one finger playing with the salt on her tray.

He slid into a seat at a table across from her, opening up his newspaper, rolling his shoulders, seemingly perfectly relaxed for someone who was now Director of a fugitive organization.

She forced herself to breathe. In and out. She read another paragraph in her book and tried to still her shaking fingers when she turned the page. In and out. Breathe.

Twenty minutes later, the iced tea was drained with a slurp and a rattling of ice, and he rose from his seat, leaving the business section of the newspaper on the table as he left.

She slowly counted to 100, made sure no one was going to take the paper before she rose as well, disposing of her garbage, easily tucking her book under her arm, and making a big show of reading the headlines on the newspaper. She made a noise in the back of her throat to indicate interest in a particular story, just in case someone was watching her, and picked it up, pretending to read while she walked. She dodged a few more children as she departed the building through the side door. Waiting until she was a block away from the fast food chain, she opened the paper carefully, finding the envelope inside.

She sighed with relief and slipped the envelope into the waistband of her jeans, blocked carefully by the paper as she tucked her blouse over it. She had done it.

First real dead drop done. She was grateful for the patience May had taken with her in the weeks before she left. If May hadn't reassured her over and over that she was capable of doing this, Jemma might have been violently ill instead of nervous. In much better spirits, Jemma smiled brightly at the next group of people she passed, tossing the newspaper in the garbage, and doing something of a skip and a hop into a convenience store, purchasing a six pack of bottled beer and a canister of chamomile tea to celebrate.

It wasn't until she entered her apartment, locked the door behind her, pulled all of her blinds securely shut and checked behind every door and in every closet for an intruder that she popped open a bottle of beer, took a quick gulp, and removed the envelope from under her blouse, the paper pulling against her heated skin and making her squirm. She pulled the flap of the envelope up and removed the sheet of paper.

On it was a long sequence of numbers. Luckily for Simmons, there were only a handful of codes they had gone over, and she very quickly deciphered exactly what it said. She was immensely proud that she didn't even have to write it down.

_Congratulations on your first drop. I know you are nervous, but you can do this. Keep your head down to start. Stay background. Gather intel. Same time. Same place. Three days. Your turn. You need to meet earlier, leave the blue butterfly in your window. I will find a way to contact you. Do not be discouraged if you do not have much info to give. This will take time. You need out, use the red butterfly. We will extract you. Burn this._

She drained the rest of her bottle of beer, grimacing as she did. Her eyes lit on the painting near the entrance way. Just at the bottom were the two large plastic butterflies, easily removable, easy to put on the window sill in full street view. A part of her wanted to run over, pull the red butterfly from its perch and fling it at the window sill. She wanted to beg them to send someone else instead. She wanted to go back to the Playground where she was safe.

But she closed her eyes and drew in a breath, fingers twitching against her thigh, seeing Fitz's distant expression, Skye's increasingly good aim with and willingness to use a real gun, worry lines on May's forehead that she tried to pretend weren't there, the agents whose faces she couldn't put to names – of which there were far too few. They needed her here. There were no biological or chemical problems for her to work out in the lab right now. And Coulson had found other scientists. Maybe not as good or as accomplished as she was, but a team of scientists with somewhat lesser experience would be enough to take her place for the time being. Back at the base, she was only getting in the way of Fitz's recovery. He was looking to her more often than not for answers that she didn't have. She wasn't one of the active agents sent out with the rest of the team. She wasn't someone who monitored communication channels. She was a hindrance. Plain and simple. But here, she could find something. Here, she could get them an advantage. She could make a difference.

Lighting a candle on the kitchen counter, Jemma burned the paper until there was nothing left but small brown unrecognizable bits, then rinsed them all down the garbage disposal, following it with a little vinegar and throwing the switch on the wall for good measure.

Then, she opened another beer and went over her cover story in her head again. It wasn't that different from her real story. It had been enough to get her a spot in Hydra's lab. But she wasn't taking any chances. She curled into the corner of her couch and muttered, "Jemma Simmons, top of the biochemical game, all alone and looking for the big kids on the science playground." It sounded like something Skye would say. If she were allowed to speak with her.

-o-

Jemma glided into the burger joint for lunch, a copy of _Newsweek _curled into one hand. Today had been a good day, so she ordered herself a milkshake and a burger with bacon and cheese. She'd run a little further on the treadmill in the morning. A little junk food wasn't going to kill her. She handed over her cash (always cash these days, because credit cards could be tracked), and accepted her change with a chirpy, "thank you."

Allowing her gaze to search out a seat while she waited on her strawberry shake, she spotted Coulson, still in a suit and tie, at a table in the back, just across from her usual one. He was eating an ice cream sundae (Jemma idly wondered if May would approve of the sweet tooth), doing a crossword puzzle on the table in front of him. She fought the urge to smile in his direction, just accepted her food and made her way to her usual seat, eating quickly and methodically, not wanting to appear overeager, but also not wanting to make him wait very long.

She acted as though she was flicking through the magazine, just another young professional taking a break from a busy job with a cheap lunch. When she reached the end of her burger, Jemma feigned checking the time on her wrist, and then, as though she was in danger of being late, hurriedly grabbed her shake and sped out the door, leaving her trash and _Newsweek _on the table.

Coulson sighed and had to keep himself from laughing at Jemma's theatrical performance. It was the same every time she was the one who had to make the drop. He knew she was doing just fine in the lab because she hadn't been compromised yet, but he hoped no one ever decided to follow her. He rolled his eyes at one of the other customers who eyed the trash with disgust.

"Kids these days, right?" Coulson said conversationally, climbing to his feet and gesturing for the older woman to take his table. He added his trash to Jemma's and walked it to the garbage can, tucking the _Newsweek _under his arm and exiting.

His cab was waiting for him just across the street.

"Where to?" May asked him from the driver's seat with a smirk.

"Anywhere you're going," he responded easily, scooting into the backseat and slamming the door shut.

"How's our girl?"

"She looks good."

"I saw her when she left, Phil."

"Then you saw as much as I did."

They were quiet while May pulled into traffic and Coulson flicked through the magazine until he found what he was looking for, a postcard with a list of nonsensical words on it. He blinked, and it took him a few blocks to remember the code Simmons was using as he copied the words into a legible form.

"She's got us a list of names," he told May. "Hydra personnel."

May nodded her head, but didn't say anything.

"She asked for this assignment," he reminded her. "She needed it."

May flicked her gaze to him in the mirror, but she still didn't respond.

"She's going to be okay."

May pursed her lips and gave a curt nod of agreement.

-o-

The drops became easier.

A quick glance let her know that no one was watching.

She didn't have to do the entire animated shtick to pick up an abandoned paper or leave a book behind anymore.

They had progressed to trade-offs that didn't involve being inside the fast food chain anymore either, varying her routine. She frequently scribbled notes about her progress in code on the inside wrapper of breakfast sandwiches, dropping the half-finished sandwich into the garbage can exactly six blocks from the building where she was working. She preferred that method. It required less acting nonchalant on her part and more hurrying down the street avoiding prying eyes. She wasn't sure who was dressing as a city employee to grab the trash bag and retrieve her intel. She had a hard time picturing Coulson in the uniform of a trash collector. May was even more difficult. Of course, they could also be posing as a homeless person looking for a good meal. Or someone who accidentally threw their cell phone in with their garbage and had to reach in for it. She had to stifle a giggle every time she thought about it.

She had even made use of a dead drop spike, something they rarely used in the field as SHIELD agents. She had carefully rolled up copies of documents, slipped them into the plastic tubing, and capped it. She slid the spike into the back of her waistband, sure it would stay in place as a result of the elastic, slipped on a loose jacket, and did her morning run in the park instead of on her treadmill. It was easy to slip the spike from her waist during a stretch and step on it until it slid into the earth, exactly one meter from the spot where the pretzel truck would set up.

Jemma Simmons had never felt so far removed from being a scientist in her life.

-o-

Sometimes, Coulson was too busy being Director to be the one to make their meetings. Sometimes, Jemma walked into a fast food restaurant or ran on the path by the pretzel truck to find Melinda May with a bottle of water in one hand, newspaper in the other.

Those were the days where Jemma almost faltered.

Seeing May out and about instead of Coulson made things real, made her realize that she wasn't just working an angle in a lab that could get her in trouble with the boss. This wasn't corporate espionage. She wasn't trading business secrets for a higher paycheck. This was life or death. If she wasn't careful, if she didn't do exactly as May had taught her, she could wind up dead.

Those were the days she would linger just a bit at the drop point, hoping for something, anything, on the team. And it was after one of those days that she finally broke, putting the blue butterfly in the window, indicating she needed an earlier meet.

-o-

Jemma had gotten in the habit of running in the morning. In the world of espionage, she needed her routine to stay the same. It kept her anxiety from boiling over. Usually. But after putting the butterfly in the window, she was too amped up to stick with her schedule. As the sun began to set, she made sure her blinds and curtains were closed securely, that every way out of her flat was locked up tight, and she turned every single light on to know if anything was about to jump out from the corners where shadows lurked like the boogeymen of childhood nightmares.

She always felt like someone was watching her now, but she had generally accepted that prickly sensation on the back of her neck as a way of life. It didn't mean she wanted it to consume her while she tried to outrun her concerns next to her window. She ran her requisite three miles, still marveling that she was able to do that, but gradually increasing the distance every day meant that if she ever needed to sprint away from a Hydra agent in the future, she could do it.

Still holding on to a manic amount of energy, Jemma turned her attention to her small kitchen, pulling the meager supplies from the cabinets and scrubbing the doors and shelves free of DNA and fingerprints until everything was glossy and the skin of her hands was practically rubbed raw. Muscles aching, head spinning from the scent of lemon and disinfectant, she started to place her belongings back into their proper places, her mind drifting to other times when she pulled things from cabinets and closets, ticking off items on a list, turning in inventory reports to a nodding Coulson and trading quips about the lack of chocolate with Skye and Fitz.

A knock at the door brought her hastily back to her present situation. She steeled her shoulders and crept carefully to the door, not prepared for who she saw on the other side – not Coulson. Coulson was always the one who made the home visits. He wasn't willing to put anyone else at risk. Jemma opened the door with a smile plastered on her face.

"Hello!" She knew her voice was overly bright, but she couldn't help it. She was oozing with relief and nervous energy, wrapped up in her doubts and needing reassurance.

"I have a delivery for Miss Simmons."

"It's Doctor Simmons," she corrected gently, and the person with the delivery smirked.

Her neighbor's door opened with a squeak, so she ushered the person holding the paper bag that smelled faintly of onions and chicken and seasonings she couldn't place inside. "I wasn't expecting you so soon. Come in. I just need to locate my wallet."

She shut the door behind them, but didn't lock it. That would be suspicious.

"You okay, Simmons?"

"I just – didn't expect it to be you, Agent May."

May kept her face blank. She turned, her eyes roaming the apartment, and briskly walked to the table to set down the bag. She hadn't been inside since sweeping the apartment for surveillance devices before Simmons had "moved in." Jemma knew what the woman was thinking – it was sunny and bright and very Simmons, but it still looked as though she was living in someone else's home. Well, technically she was.

"You needed to meet. Coulson's on a recruiting run. He thinks he found a mechanic."

"Oh." Jemma was quiet, her hands wringing in front of her. She tried to process her thoughts. If May was acting as a delivery person, they only had moments before her presence in the flat was too long to be considered normal.

"Anything wrong?"

"I just – I don't know if my work is even doing any good. I don't feel as though I'm passing on any useful information. I know, having only been here a few weeks, it's unrealistic to hope for more. Deep cover agents, shadow agents, sometimes they spend months or years in their personas, but I had thought, given my background, I'd be advancing much more quickly." Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She didn't want May to know she'd requested a meet just because she was feeling lonely and scared and needed someone to tell her she was doing the right thing.

"Coulson told you to keep your head down, blend in?"

"Yes."

"Don't."

Jemma met May's eyes in surprise. The expression on May's face was still carefully blank, but her eyes were fierce.

"I don't understand."

"Jemma Simmons is the brightest scientist to come out of SHIELD. She left because they lacked resources to advance her work. Take advantage of their research and show them what they've been missing out on."

Jemma smiled, one of the first genuine smiles she'd given in weeks.

"Thank you."

"Any time, Simmons. Take the butterfly out of the window." She paused. "Your next meet is Thursday night at the taco place. If Coulson's still out, I'll meet you for whatever you've got. We'll use the bathroom instead of the newspaper, okay? You remember how to open the paper towel dispenser?"

"Okay." She nodded her head, and May turned, almost making it to the door before Jemma gathered her courage and asked, "Are they angry with me for leaving?"

"For now. But they won't be when they know why."

-o-

* * *

><p><strong>I decided after having so much fun writing about Agents of SHIELD during season one with Conversation Hearts, I'd do another alphabet challenge for season two. So, each chapter will be focused on a word for that particular letter of the alphabet. Each chapter will most likely focus on only a couple of characters at a time as well. They won't be in any kind of chronological order, just different small pieces of the season. The plan is that everything here will fit in with the canon storylines. Feel free to send me random words. <strong>

**And a thanks goes to notapepper for not only beta-ing for me, but giving me a title for these one shots when I was stuck. **


End file.
